When It Rains, It Pours
by AbbieNormal182
Summary: Mort Rainey can't forget what happened with John Shooter, no matter what he tries. When strange things begin happening, he begins to wonder about his current mental state. ON HIATUS.Rated PG13 for language...
1. Got The Time?

Disclaimer: I swear that I own nothing from _Secret Window_, the movie, nor _Secret Window, Secret Garden_, the book. Stephen King owns it all, congratulations mate….

Soo, here we go, my first Secret Window fic, so I guess we'll see what happens.. lol…  
  
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Mort Rainey missed his watch. He had the pressing urge to know what time it was, almost every moment of the day. Yet, he could not bring himself to buy himself a new one.

His previous watch was at the bottom of a cliff, covered by a whole lot of water. Therefore, it probably wouldn't be working, even if he had it back now.

The watch was the key to Mort's continued existence in his house at Tashmore Lake, he believed. The two men it had drowned with had the potential to completely ruin his life... but hadn't he done that when he'd killed them?

Morton Rainey shook his head vigorously to clear it of those thoughts. He had never killed anyone, despite what the locals of Tashmore Lake would tell anyone who would listen. He hadn't killed Tom Greenleaf, his neighbour and friend, nor Ken Karsch, his previous private investigator. It was also said that Mort killed his soon-to-be ex-wife Amy, and her boyfriend Ted. That was simply not true. He hadn't killed anyone.

Now, John Shooter, on the other hand. John Shooter was a sick bastard, and John Shooter was the man that had killed those people. John Shooter, the Mississippi man who was violent and unpredictable. The very same John Shooter whom Mort had created from the depths of his own mind to destroy the parts of his life that were causing him pain.

But he couldn't allow himself to think of Shooter at this point. Shooter was offlimits. It was like the Freddy Krueger movies. If he were completely forgotten, maybe he would go away.

But you think of him every day.   
  
"I know that." Mort answered out loud, exasperated. He pushed a hand through his messy blonde hair, brushing it all back to reveal dark roots. The author was seated at his desk, as usual, with his laptop in front of him, _Microsoft Word_ opened with a few lines of typing. The desk itself was littered with papers, bills, a torn dictionary, and many empty Doritos bags. His new silver-rimmed glasses laid beside the glass of water he'd only partially drank. He'd reverted back to wearing his black thick-framed glasses, because he couldn't seem to get used to the difference in weight.

_ So why don't you just forget him?_

"Do you think I don't try?" Mort asked himself.

Oh, I know you try. You should try harder. He'll come back. You know it. This is just a temporary reprieve. The eye of the storm. He'll be back, and he'll kill again. You know it. I know it. So deal with it.

"Would you just shut the fuck up?" Mort said to himself, drinking the rest of the water from the clear crystal glass in one swallow. He was feeling restless, and irritated, never a good thing for him. His left eye twitched once, and he pressed his index finger against it.

You know that I'm right. Admit it.  
  
"Shut up!" He said, getting up from his chair. "I don't want to listen to you. I don't. I'm going to take a nap. I'm going to take a nap, and you can't stop me."

Mort stumbled down the stairs, and flopped onto the couch. He hadn't taken a nap on the couch in a few months now. Not since Amy and Ted had disappeared. But either way, he laid back, and removed his glasses, placing them on the coffee table beside him.

Laying there like that, he drifted to sleep, having the same dream he had every night. The dream about Shooter. The dream were he was Shooter, and he killed Tom, and Ken, and Amy, and Ted. He hated that dream. But he had it every night, so he'd sort of gotten used to it.

This was what Mort Rainey's days were like. He would write something for a few hours everyday, he'd fight with himself about something or another, and then he'd take a nap. The only thing that was different about his life since Amy disappeared was the fact that he no longer had braces, nor the obsession with corn. Quite the contrary, actually. He was almost nauseated by the thought of corn on the cob these days.

Something has to change. _You're becoming caught up in memories of Shooter. Melancholy._

"I have returned to the couch," Mort murmured, using one of his favourite lines. "In shame. Degradation. Sloth."

Sloth is right. You have no inspiration anymore.

Something has to change.

And the next morning, change it did.  
  
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Please, oh please review!

-Abbie


	2. Ah, To Be Nameless

Disclaimer: I do not own _Secret Window_, nor _Secret Window, Secret Garden._ Please don't sue me. I also don't own the lyrics or music to "Angel", by Sarah McLachlan.  
  
A/N: Question for everyone… in _Secret Window_, when Mort's thinking, "this is just bad writing" and whatnot, and then he deletes it, and gets this satisfied smile on his face? Is it just me, or does anyone else go through those **_exact_** same thoughts and motions every day? Honestly, it was like a mirror.. only… Johnny Depp… heeeeyyyy..   
  
Anyway, onto the story!!

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Mort sat straight up, his tousled hair flying about his head. He reached blindly for his glasses, and pushed them up the bridge of his nose so he could see the clock on the other side of the room.

2:04.

"Shit." Mort cursed quietly. He'd slept for a total of ten minutes or so. Stupid ass dumb dreams.

_ 'Cause it's _really_ going to help if you call the dreams names, hmm?_

"You have no say." Mort muttered, swinging his legs off the couch, and slowly pushing himself to his feet. "No damn say in the ways of Mort Rainey."

He stumbled to the kitchen, the clothes he had slept in wrinkled and a bit bunched up. Mort went pawing through his cupboards looking for something… almost anything to eat. And, of course, there wasn't anything. Mostly because he hadn't gone shopping in two weeks now. He hated shopping. For one thing, he had to go into New London to shop, because according to the sheriff, he made people in Tashmore "_uncomfortable"_. Second, it didn't matter where he went to shop around here. He got the looks anyway. The damn looks that said, "there's that killer." The looks that Mort hated so much.  
  
_That's because you're a coward._

"And you're an insulting little shithead." He said out loud. But he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, taking a single glance at his glowing laptop screen, with the half-finished sentence across it. Damn writer's block. He hated not having inspiration. But he was going out. He'd buy some groceries, and maybe see a movie. Regular stuff. Normal stuff people did on Friday nights. Shooter would be forgotten.  
  
_ Normal? Do you even know what normal means these days? Groceries aren't going to get rid of Shooter._

Mort pulled his shirt over his head, and smelled it. Blech. He'd been wearing it for a couple of days already, and it smelt none too good. He tossed it to the hardwood floor, not really caring about the mess, and went to find another one. Preferably a clean one. And, of course, not a one could be found. All he had was dirty shirts. That was because he also hadn't done his laundry in a few weeks. Damn, he wasn't very organized, was he?  
  
_ You're a writer. Who ever said you had to be clean?_

Mort ignored himself. He found a black shirt that didn't look, nor smell too dirty, and put it on, adjusting it over his chest properly. Glancing at his jeans, they passed his inspection for cleanliness, so he went down the stairs, stepping lightly on each stair.

So, do you have any idea what you're doing, or are you heading blindly into traffic, hoping to get run over?

"Oh stop raining on my parade." Mort said, grabbing his jacket and leaving his old, and yet beautiful house, the screen door squeaking as it swung shut.

He took a single step from his porch, with a sneakered foot, and jumped. "Ah!" He yelled in surprise, as a big German Shepherd barked at him. It ran up to him, and started licking his hands, frantic for some attention.

"Christ, I'm sorry about that." A female voice distracted Mort from the dog, and he looked up to see a brunette girl walking past his house. "Rorry's a bit excitable. Rorry, get over here. Now!" She commanded the dog, and it ran back over to her. Mort noticed her British accent, and wondered. Not many foreigners were around Tashmore Lake, so this was certainly a change.

"Ah." Mort said still shaken up a bit. "That's… okay. I'm okay."  
  
_ She's pretty, isn't she Mort?_

"Lovely." The woman said, sounding relieved that he wasn't angry at being startled like that.

Yes, you are, pretty lady.  
  
"I'm Mort." He said, trying his hardest to ignore the voice in his head. "Mort Rainey."

"Nice to meet you, Mort Rainey." The woman said with a bit of a smile, and then she whistled to her dog, and jogged off down the road.

Mort stared after her, and made a shooting motion at her head. Kind of rude, wasn't she?

Oh, you liked it.   
  
"Shut up, you little bastard." Mort muttered at himself absentmindedly, and got into his truck. He had to admit, she was pretty. But the least she could've done was offer her name in return. Common courtesy, you'd think, but apparently not. But he let it go, and put his truck in drive.  
  
He pulled out of his driveway, the truck bouncing hard on the bumpy dirt road, and jolting the man. He moved his slightly unshaven jaw in the way that a person would when their jaw is perpetually locking up. He supposed that it could be worse though. It could completely lock up, while his mouth was open. Amy's used to do that, and whenever it did, he would come along and pop her one, right under her chin. It had been this way almost since Shooter arrived, therefore Mort had decided that it was simply stress that made it do that. Same with his eye twitches. Just stress.  
  
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, Mort thought.  
  
_ I could've told you that, shithead._  
  
He ignored that thought. It was an hour-long drive to New London, so he'd have plenty of time to think… and time to think seemed to lead to thinking about things he didn't want to think about. He couldn't keep thinking about Shooter, or Amy, or Tom Greenleaf, or anyone else from that time in his life. He just couldn't. If he kept it up, it would eventually destroy him. Jesus, now he was sounding exactly like the voice in his head. Maybe he was crazier than he thought.

So he did what most people do. He distracted himself, and turned on the radio. "Christ." Mort said out loud.

Spend all your time waiting,   
for that second chance.  
For a break that would make it okay,  
There's always some reason to feel not good enough  
and it's hard at the end of the day.  
I need some distraction,  
Oh beautiful release,   
Memories seep through my veins  
Let me be empty,  
And weightless and maybe,  
I'll find some peace tonight,  
in the arms of the --  
  
Mort snapped the radio off, with a bit of a growl. Couldn't they possibly play anything else? Damn lyrics. So he distracted himself in another way. He multiplied by two.   
  
"2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512, 1024, 2048…"Mort counted off out loud. He used to do this when he was a kid, and was trying not to cry. It helped him concentrate, and therefore distracted him. After awhile, he confused himself. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to be 8388608, or 8388610, but it didn't matter, because he was in New London by that time, having taken so long to do a couple of the longer equations.  
  
Angling his frame out of the truck, he started into a grocery store to be stopped by a little girl. "Are you Morton Rainey?" She asked innocently. She looked to be about ten, in a light pink dress, with a bow in her blonde hair. She looked like a little angel, but Mort knew better. Children were all little Lucifer's. But, then again, perhaps this girl was different. Although, he had to admit that it was odd for a ten year old to be asking for his autograph. He doubted that most ten year olds would read stories like the ones he wrote.  
  
"I am, miss." Mort said, trying to act a little more charming than he usually was. "What can I do for you?"

"Could I have your autograph?" She asked, all sweet as pie, and Mort couldn't help but smile as she handed him a pen, and a receipt to sign.

"Absolutely, darlin'. What's your name?" He asked. Well, this was nice. He liked signing autographs for people. Not that it happened very often.  
  
"Christie." She said, and he wrote _To Christie,_ and the next thing she said stopped his pen's movement. "My mom says you kill people."

Mort blinked once, shook his blonde-ish hair out of his face, and said "No. I don't." And then he finished his autograph. "_To Christie, I'm your real father. Mort Rainey" _And then he handed it back.  
  
_ You're such a bastard. She's just a little girl._

"But it was funny." Mort murmured consolingly. The author strolled away feeling pretty damn good about himself. It wasn't often that he got to get back some of the assholes that accused him of things that he didn't do. That little girl and her mother were some of those few.

Either way, he got his groceries, and headed to the park. Maybe he would sit in the park and watch the people for a bit. He and Amy used to do that. They would sit on a bench and watch the world pass in front of them. Mort had loved it then, and still loved it now, so that's what he did.

Settling onto the worn wooden bench, Mort sighed. The fountain in the park was right in front of him, and it was a beautiful thing, the water streaming over the top terrace into an absolutely giant pool of water.

"Hello Mr. Rainey." Mort heard from beside him, and jumped at the Mississippi accent. He turned his head a little bit to see the one man he never, ever wanted to see again. John Shooter.

I told you he'd be back, you twit. I told you. Now see? He's back. You know what this means. He's going to kill someone, and you know it. Turn yourself in. Turn yourself in before someone gets hurt.

"Hello John." Mort said calmly. "May I ask what you're doing here?"

"I wanted t'thank you, mister." Shooter said adjusting the brim of the black hat on his head. "You changed th'endin' of my story, just like I asked you to."

"Not a problem." Mort answered. "Your ending was better anyway."

"But we still have a problem." Shooter told him. "You didn't change th'name. It's not your story, it's mine."

"Well I'll work on changing that Mr. Shooter." Mort said, just wanting the man to go away. Yes, Shooter was actually a figment of Mort's own imagination, but that didn't change anything. He was still dangerous, not to mention annoying.

"That's all I can ask Mr. Rainey. You do that, and I'll leave you alone."

"Lovely." Mort said, and watched as Shooter walked away, disappearing behind a tree, and not appearing on the other side. Dammit. He hated this, and he hated Shooter, and he even hated himself. Damn, damn, damn.

He glanced at his wrist for the time before remembering he no longer had a watch. "Fuck." Mort whispered, and stared at the fountain. The fountain was great. The fountain was perfect.

Mort stood up and drifted absentmindedly towards it, standing at the edge. This was all too much for him. He couldn't handle it anymore. He just wanted his life back. He wanted Amy back, he wanted the inspiration to write back. He wanted what used to be, but knew that it was gone.

The next thing he knew, he was being pulled out of the water in the fountain. He coughed up a little water, as someone laid him on his back.

"Mort Rainey, you should be more careful." A female voice came, holding the same British inflection as the woman from earlier. Mort opened his eyes, and coughed again, this time more in surprise.

It was the same woman from outside his house. The one with the dog, the dog that had licked his hands and whatnot. "What are you doing here?" He spluttered, startled.

"Apparently I'm saving your ass." She laughed out loud. "You just about drowned yourself. Maybe you should find other ways to let go of your problems, you think?"

"That's what I was _trying_ to do." Mort said sullenly, as he sat up, water dripping from his clothes, but the woman had already gotten up and started away. "What's your name?" He yelled after her, but she either didn't hear him, or she completely ignored him.

Mort threw his hands down in frustration, flinging water everywhere. Who was this woman that would not tell him her name, and yet would save him from drowning himself? It didn't make any sense to Mort, but he would find out. The next time he saw her, Mort vowed he would be in a position better suited to following her.

Perhaps, however, Mort thought, he had found his inspiration…

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Huge thank you to my reviewers, untouchable1400: thanks for stopping by. Dawnie-7: thanks.. J sunkist3208: Well, lol, I suppose I should thank you for reviewing, even if you have no idea what's going on.. :-P. And an extra big thank you to Plateado (Riley) for an absolutely excellent review, which I adored to the bottom of my little pink heart, heheheh. It certainly meant a ton to me, that sort of encouragement… lol, so thank you, and you better get writing. ;) I've been waiting… :-P  
  
Anyway, please review, and I'll give you all Mort Rainey action figures.. :D  
  
-Abbie


	3. Poison Ivy

Disclaimer: I do not own anything from _Secret Window_, nor _Secret Window, Secret Garden_. Jeez.. :-P I get sick of these.. I mean.. c'mon.. I can't even afford a box of **_KD_**, the way it's going right now.. lol. Oh, yeah, by the way, I don't own the Forgotten Realms books, nor Drizzt Do'Urden from them.. I swear, R.A. Salvatore owns 'em all!

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Mort fumbled with his keys as he unlocked his front door, dropping them a total of three times. He'd left the groceries in his truck, so when the knob turned and the door finally swung open on its hinges, he dashed inside and up the stairs, slamming the door behind him with a resounding crash. He didn't turn back to see if he'd broken anything, just flew into his rolling office chair in front of his desk… and went spinning across the room.

"Dammit." He muttered, and rolled himself back, waiting impatiently for his laptop to boot up. He tapped his fingernails against the desk. He glanced at the chair were his dog Chico used to sleep. He sighed, which sounded more like a growl when the screen glowed blue and told him that his computer hadn't been shut down properly. Who cared? He didn't want to know if he'd been stupid about shutting it down; he just wanted the thing to work.  
  
_ Excited because the pretty girl gave you an idea?  
  
_ "Yes." Mort agreed, and opened up a Word document as fast as possible. A full three pages of typing flowed out of him, seemingly before he'd even taken another breath. He stared in amazement at the screen, realizing that he'd just written three pages that were among the best he'd ever done.

Finally, he had a plot. So he typed. And typed, and typed until the sun came up the next morning, and there was a knock at the door. Mort looked up, dazedly at the door, wondering who would disturb the streak he was on. Dutifully, he angled himself out of his chair, and started down the stairs. He had three full chapters by now, and was halfway through his fourth, still going strong, and typing like there was no tomorrow.

He ran a hand through his hair, and pulled the door open slowly. The blinding sunlight revealed the girl that had pulled him from the water in the fountain yesterday.

"Good morning, Mort Rainey." She said, and he noticed that she always called him 'Mort Rainey', instead of 'Mort' or even 'Mr. Rainey', like everyone else. She smiled at him pleasantly. "I just stopped by to see how you're doing, after our little encounter yesterday."

This woman was just plain weird in Mort's eyes. He hadn't learned her name yet, even though they'd had three meetings already; one of those resulting in her saving his life. She'd inspired his book, and yet, he didn't know how she'd done that.

"I'm… fine." Mort said, a little confused. He hadn't honestly expected to see the nameless girl so soon. "Would you like to come in? I can make you some coffee." He offered, remembering a little hospitality.

She seemed to be debating it silently, he could see it in her dark eyes. Then she bit her lower lip. "Sure, I guess." The girl followed him inside and took off her coat. He could understand why she would need one. It was just barely getting out of winter, and though all the snow was gone, the wind still held a fierce chill.  
  
He wandered into the kitchen and put some water on to boil, wondering what exactly he was supposed to do with this woman. He pivoted on one foot to find her comfortably settled into a chair at the small wooden table.  
  
"What's your name?" He asked pensively, his eyebrows coming together a little bit to portray his confusion, and she smiled. It wasn't really a smile; more an ironic upturn of her lips. A smirk, perhaps, but not quite; Mort just couldn't figure out what sort of emotion was behind that face.

"My name, Mort Rainey?" She asked with a bit of a laugh. "You want to know my name? It's of no consequence."

His eyes narrowed minimally, thinking about her last statement. "Of no consequence, perhaps, but I'd still like to know. Out of interest's sake."

Maybe you should just leave her alone. Maybe she doesn't want to tell you her name, because you're a psycho killer.

Shut the fuck up, he thought viciously, and the girl leaned back comfortably in her seat, brushing her dark hair behind her ear. "Most call me Ivy."

"Ivy." Mort said slowly, giving his tongue a chance to get used to the way the name rolled from it. He nodded curtly. "Nice name."

She simply blinked in acknowledgement. "Ivy what?"  
  
She seemed to think for a moment, hesitating long enough to make Mort wonder. "Ivy Shetfield."  
  
_ She had to think, to remember what her last name is? Now that's what we might just call a doorknob, whaddya think?_

Mort turned around suddenly, completely ignoring himself as he did so often, and poured this Ivy woman some coffee. Ivy Shetfield. Interesting. He shuffled over to the table with two ceramic coffee cups, and placed one before her, sitting down across the table from her.

"So Ivy." Mort said, and brushed his hair out of his face. "Where do you live?"

She laughed, and took a sip of her coffee. "That's a bold question, don't you think?" He just shrugged. "I live near the lake."

"Ambiguous answer for a bold question." Mort murmured, and he found his lips turning up of their own volition as he studied her.

She wasn't short, but she wasn't exactly tall. Mort would guess about five and a half feet for Ivy's slender frame. Her hair was tied back today in a braid, but a few rebellious brown strands had escaped and hung about her face. However, the feature that Mort noticed most about her was her eyes. They were… purple.

"Are your eyes always like that?" Mort blurted out without thinking.

Nice one, pilgrim. Very smooth.

She smiled, and blinked her lavender orbs. "Yes, they are Mr. Rainey. Ever since I was a kid."

"Wow." Mort breathed. How could he not have noticed that within the last couple of times he'd seen her? That was amazing. "Why are they that colour?"

It was Ivy's turn to shrug. "No one knows. They just are."

Something sparked in Mort's memory. "That's just like those books that R.A. Salvatore wrote, isn't it?"

She grinned, and nodded. "Absolutely. Drizzt Do'Urden was my hero because he had lavender coloured eyes too."

"So you liked those books?" Mort asked, hoping. He never had anyone to "bookchat" with, after he and Amy split up. This could be a good chance.

"I loved them!" Ivy said dramatically, and Mort grinned happily.

You should be writing.

He ignored that, and promptly forgot that he had a book to work on, spending the next three hours drinking coffee, and talking about books with a pretty girl. Later, he thought about it and realized that he, Mort Rainey, the supposed psycho killer, might have just made a friend…

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I hate this chapter to death, but then again huge thanks and Mort action figures to my reviewers!!!!

Plateado (Riley): Well, the great thing about how Mort thinks.. is that's how I like to write.. lol.. short choppy sentences. Makes everything a little more dramatic in my mind... my confused little brain.. lol.. and thanks very much.. :D By the way, inspiration can be a jerk.. lol, and one of these days, you'll just sit down at your computer and think "holy cow, that'll work!".. it's great fun.. :-P

Goth Princess: Thanks, lovely.. lol.. well I must admit that I was laughing like a lunatic when I wrote the part about the autograph, and my mom kept giving me weird looks.. as if she was wondering about my mental stability.. ah well.. Oh, look! Birds!

Vanillafluffy: Well I guess you'll just have to wait and see, now won't you?? ;) As you said to me, I like to keep the readers guessing.. heheh.. but either way, when I wrote "Children are little Lucifer's", I sort of meant it.. lol.. my cousins were over, and the little boy peed on himself.. and the floor…. Four times. So you can see my distaste.. :-P

Charming Visions: Thank you very much.. :D have a lovely day!

ShadowDiva: Thanks, darlin' for droppin' in and leavin' lil ol' me a review.. :-P… :D

Sunkist3208: Wasn't it a great movie?? :-P Plus now you understand what the heck's going on.. lol

Mishy: Lovely, thanks honey.. J

The reviewers of the next chapter get…. Um, let's see.. screwdrivers!!! Mwhahah.. annnnyway….. I'm a tree!

hehe

-Abbie


	4. Heroin, Anyone?

Disclaimer: Jeez, have I not told you all this enough? I don't own anything from _Secret Window_, nor _Secret Window, Secret Garden._ Stephen King is own lucky bastard… (-: I also don't own anything from Lord Of The Rings, nor Orlando Bloom, or Viggo Mortensen. Or Mountain Dew.

A/N: Well, it's come to my attention (thanks very much Swift Jewel), through an email about this story, that some readers may be confused by the fact that at the end of the movie, Shooter **was **Mort, and no longer his own entity. Yet, in my story, Shooter again appears as his own person. This is only because we are now in Mort's perspective again. At the beginning of the movie, that camera angle goes **through** the mirror in Mort's living room. This signifies that we are now part of Mort's outlook. We see what Mort sees. We see John Shooter as his own person. Then, at the end of the movie, we again go through the mirror. This signifies that we are outside Mort's perspective again, and we see what others ee. We see what Amy sees. A crazy man with a pair of scissors. Mort Rainey. But in my fanfiction, we see what Mort sees. A crazy man with a screwdriver. John Shooter. Anyway, I hope that's cleared a few things up. If not, please tell me in my review, or feel free to email me at sheangel15 at hotmail.  
  
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Mort paused in the middle of a sentence he was typing, and downed the rest of the drink that Ivy had brought him that morning. Some fruit thing, with weird looking black things in it. She assured him that they were blueberry parts, but they still looked strange to Mort.

_Let's see. That's because you haven't had a piece of fruit in, oh, we'll say a year._

But either way, it was quite tasty, and now he had the craving for another one. He glanced over at Ivy. She was lying on her stomach on the carpet downstairs reading some book she had found on his multiple bookshelves.

The two had spent all of yesterday talking about books, and then movies, when Mort had mentioned that The Lord Of The Ring books were better than the movies. Ivy disagreed, saying that she had no patience for those books, for whatever reason. So then Mort felt the need to go through his favourite of the three _The Fellowship of the Ring_, and read parts to her that he felt was some of the best writing the world had ever seen. Ivy had listened patiently, and argued furiously that the movies were better because of the blonde elf and the hot human.

Mort brought his hands up and pushed the hair from his face. He paused, having noticed something rather strange on his arm. He brought his arm up to the desk lamp to get a better look. It looked like… a needle mark.

_Well, you're not on heroin, you can trust me on that._

"Where did it come from?" He muttered, looked at the mark with troubled eyes.

"Where did what come from?" Ivy asked as she came to the top of the stairs.

"Oh just…" Mort paused for a moment. "It's just nothing."

Don't you trust her enough pilgrim? You sure had a good time yesterday. Or was that a lie? Ironic that your world revolves around the word "false", eh?

"Okay." She smiled, and tucked her long dark hair over her shoulder. "Are you up for dinner tonight or something?"  
  
"Well, you're here at my house. I'd say yes, probably." He laughed, trying to ignore the worries he had about the mark on his arm. It really did look like a needle mark, but he didn't know where it came from.  
  
"I meant at a resteraunt or something." She grinned at him. "My treat."

He pretended to think about it for a moment, tapping his chin with one finger. "I'll say yes, but only if you come back home with me and have the chocolate cake that's in my freezer. I bought it a few weeks ago but never ate it."

"Agreed." She said, and winked at him. "A big hurrah for chocolate."

Later that evening, they sat in the kitchen eating generous slices of cake and drinking Mountain Dew. Mort swallowed the final bite from his piece, and leaned back, content to watch Ivy finish her piece.  
  
She glanced up to see him watching her with an odd smile on his face. "What?" She asked self-conciously, wiping at the corners of her mouth in case she had cake stuck there. "What are you looking at?"

"You." He said simply, and adjusted his glasses. Suddenly he got up and paced into his living room.

_Oh what now? You're acting different. Know why? You're flirting, shithead. At least give her a chance to flirt back._

"Shut the fuck up." He muttered at himself as he did so often. He stepped up to the huge mirror on his wall, and memories came reeling back. He remembered John Shooter. He remembered Amy. He remembered this mirror, and Shooter's hat. He remembered the exact moment that he realized that he was crazy.

"Mort?" He heard from behind him. He pivoted on one heel to see Ivy standing there awkwardly. She shifted her weight. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just fine little lady." He heard himself say, and immediately shook his head once. That Southern accent. Couldn't let that show through.

"Little lady?" She laughed, and then the awkwardness was gone from her face. "Interesting nickname, I admit."

"Nickname?" Mort asked questioningly. "It can't be a nickname if I've only used it once. That's against the nickname rules."  
  
"Well you've called me that three times already." Ivy said and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Little lady."

To Mort's credit, he didn't totally panic. He simply freaked out. "Okay!" He said loudly, and headed toward her. "G'night Ivy." He told her, and started pushing her towards the door.

"But, Mort." She started to say, but he had already shoved her coat into her hands, and opened the door.

"Goodnight!." He told her, and she complied by stepping out of the house.

"Mort, I-"

He had already shut the door.

Crazy crazy. I told you so. You're a pyscho nutjob. How come you never listen to me?

"Because you're as crazy as me." He muttered. He bounded up the stairs and pulled a drawer on his desk open. Frantically, he dug through it until he found what he was looking for. His smokes. This seemed to be a reoccuring form of stress relief for him. The last time he had smoked was right before Amy had died. Right before Amy had been murdered.

_By you._

"That's not true." He whispered. "I didn't kill her. I didn't."

_Fuck yes, you did. You raised that shovel, WHAM!_

"Shut up!" He yelled, and tossed a book at the wall. "I didn't fucking kill Amy!"

"Oh, you certainly did." Mort said in that dreaded accent.

"I didn't." He said defiantly, and took another drag on his cigarette. "You killed her, you bastard."

_Well this can't be good. You haven't "been" Shooter in awhile now. Since you killed Amy._

"Since when did you start getting sarcastic?" Mort muttered, slamming the drawer on his desk shut with a resounding thud. He knew that it was true though. He had not spoken in that Southern accent since Shooter had killed Amy. Not a single word.

_Oh about the same time you killed Amy._

"Fuck you." Mort said into the silence. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

This really wasn't good. He needed to maintain that distance from Shooter. Just yesterday, he had _seen_ Shooter. Seen him with his own two eyes.

Although, the most terrible thing about Shooter nowadays was that Mort knew. Saw. Felt. After he had finally realized that Shooter really was a part of himself, he could be a part of _that._ When Shooter killed Amy and Ted, Mort watched. Not from any sort of distance. In a sense, Mort himself had killed them. He had seen them, felt their blood. Watched them die. But he was powerless to do anything about it until he had opened his eyes and recognized that he was Mort Rainey again._  
  
I told you that you killed them. Idiot._

Mort ignored himself now. He had to work out some way to keep John Shooter compressed within himself. Then he understood. It was the possibility of a relationship with a woman that had brought Shooter out tonight. Mort ran his hands through his hair anxiously.

Ivy was attractive, and extremely intelligent. Amy had been the same. Ivy held the potential to hurt him in the exact same way that Amy had hurt him. If that was the case, Shooter would kill her. Mort knew this. He also knew that he had to stay away from Ivy from now on.

No sex? Damn. So go turn yourself in. Call the cops. Maybe you'll get a little love in the pyschiatric ward.

Mort made his way downstairs, and thought about that. Maybe a ward like that would be best for him. For God's sake, maniac inside him had killed four people and a dog.

But he didn't pursue the thought. He couldn't do that. He'd kill himself before he did that to himself. Mort sank down onto the couch, and leaned back, closing his dark eyes to the world.

Fuck Shooter. Fuck Amy and Ted. Fuck Ken and Tom. Most of all, fuck Ivy. He wouldn't see her tomorrow. Or the next day. Or ever again.

Fuck Ivy. Right. You'll get to that if you're careful.

"Pervert." Mort Rainey muttered, and rolled over, promptly falling asleep. The morning would bring enough time to think all this over, he knew._  
_  
  
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Okay, so this wasn't the best of chapters. Sorry. I was at a loss for words (literally) for awhile, but figured that if I didn't force myself to write, I'd never get anywhere with this one. So, please forgive me… and I'd still love any reviews you have to spare! ;) :-P

Thanks to my reviewers from last chapter: Sunkist3208, thanks so much m'dear for reviewing everything I put up in an excellently timely fashion…  
Goth Princess: Thanks very much, and yes, Mort and Ivy did seem to be getting along famously..  
Dawnie-7: Weird? Absolutely…  
Mishy:You can write as well as me.. :-P Put the damn chapter up!!!  
Plateado: Well I guess you'll find out the answer to that suspicion soon enough.. mwhahahah… And thanks for your review!  
  
Sorry for the stupid format. Any advice someone can give me on how to make this stupid thing indent for paragraphs properly, I'd love to hear it...  
  
-Abbie-  
_  
  
_


	5. It's Not You, It's Me

  
  
Disclaimer: Okay, I don't own anyone/anything (including locations) from _Secret Window_, and or _Secret Window, Secret Garden_. Are we clear? We're clear. Excellent... 

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Mort rolled over trying to block the blinding sunlight with his arm a little bit, but was too groggy to do it effectively. Then he sat up straight and stared out the window.

He fumbled for his glasses, brushing everything else off of his coffee table in his search. When his hands finally closed around their thick frames, he stumbled to his feet, slipping his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

It was snowing.

_Because that's such a fucking phenomenon, hmm?_

No, he meant that it was snowing in August. Blizzard type snowing. He shuffled towards the window, not taking his eyes from the falling snow, and pressed his hands against the icecold panes of glass. There was already at least four feet of snow on the ground.

He glanced at his left wrist, seeking the time. Then he remembered where his watch was. He spun immediately, and glanced at the little egg timer sized clock on his mantle. 9:27. It had snowed four feet in ten hours. How was that possible?  
  
_You're such a moron. It's a freaking blizzard. That means it snows a lot in a short time._

"Shut up." Mort said absentmindedly, running one hand through his hair, still wondering about the snow. It wasn't like Tashmore Lake to have such unpredictable weather.

"Pardon me?" He heard a female voice say, and wheeled towards the kitchen, the direction of the voice. He was just in time to see Ivy stick her head around the corner of the doorframe.  
  
"Augh!" Mort yelped, and stepped back. Too bad he forgot that he was standing right beside the couch. Too bad that when he stepped back, he had enough momentum to trip backwards right over the couch.

Ivy came rushing over, and peered over the couch at him, he with his feet up on the couch, and his head lying on the floor. He had narrowly missed the coffee table.

"Are you okay?" She asked with a bit of a chuckle in her tone. She obviously knew that he was fine, but thought it polite to ask anyhow.

"I'm fine." Mort snapped as he sat up. "What are you doing here?" He angled himself to his feet, and stared at her. "I really don't remember inviting you in."

"Hostile of you." Ivy smiled, and her dark eyes crinkled at the edges. "You didn't. You wouldn't answer your phone when I called to see if you were okay, so I came over. You should really think about locking your door."

_Okay, _this_ one you can kill now. Ramble on brave babblers!_

"Why did you want to know if I was okay?" Mort asked, tugging on his shirt a little, trying to straighten it out, if only for the sake that he had a pretty girl in his living room.

"You made me leave quite suddenly last night, and I thought we were getting along splendidly. You seemed... distraught." She said cheerfully. "But you seem okay now."

"Okay? Okay?" He said, and pushed one hand through his hair, and glanced at his feet. "Distraught. Okay. Yes, I was distraught. Now, uh. Could you leave?"

She stared at him in silence for a moment. "It's snowing."

_She's quick. Do her._

"Yeah, I know." Mort shrugged. "I saw."

"I'm not driving in a blizzard." She said. "I may be dumb, but I'm not that stupid." She pushed her hair away from her face, scowling at him. "I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."

"Alright then." Mort shrugged, realizing that he wasn't going to get anywhere in this argument. "But uh... stay downstairs."

Ivy frowned, and shifted her weight to one foot. "Whatever." She answered, and promptly sauntered back into the kitchen. Mort watched her go with a bad sense of foreboding. Something bad was probably going to happen now that she was here, but he didn't know what. But he did know that he couldn't stay downstairs with her.

He headed up the stairs. Maybe he'd actually get a little bit written today. Likely not, but he could try, at least.

_I've got a suggestion. Why don't let her bone you, and see what happens from there?_

"Jesus Christ, you're a pervert." Mort said outloud as he sat down in his rolling office chair, and automatically looked over at the seat that Chico used to sleep in. God, his life had gone to hell so quickly. And he wanted his fucking watch.

Mort heard a noise from the ground floor, and peered over the railing to see Ivy settling onto the couch with some toast and a book. And then... a rage came over him, one that made him want to run down the stairs and strangle the bitch to death,, cut her up, see her blood, and feel her die...

Then it was gone, and he was left breathlessly staring at the girl wondering where the hell it had come from. That wasn't like him. It wasn't even like Shooter, for God's sake! Shooter was always calm about wanting to kill someone.

_Oh, so now you're crazier than we originally thought. This is just great.Perfect. So no sex, just a whole lot of blood. Really, I think this sexual deprivation. Violence towards abstinence. You should take that under advisement._

"Thanks, I will." Mort muttered, and sat down heavily. What was happening now? This wasn't him, and it wasn't Shooter, so who was it?

_How do you know it's not you? You've never wanted to kill someone. You know, when you weren't Shooter. So maybe it is you, and this is how you feel when you want to kill someone._

Mort blinked. He hadn't thought of that. Well actually, he had, but it wasn't that he _had_, although- "Yeah, enough." He muttered. So. Maybe it was him. But why would he want to kill Ivy. She was a nice girl. She'd done nothing but good for him so far.

"Mort?" She said from the top of stairs. He hadn't even noticed her there.

_Speak of the devil._

"Ivy?" He said, spinning his chair to face her. Maybe if he stopped doing things like telling her leave and whatnot, he would quit wanting to kill her.

"I'm uh, sorry for showing up here this morning. I didn't think you'd be mad." She said sheepishly. "I was a bit worried when you wouldn't answer your phone, and I didn't think it through."

Well that certainly did it. Honestly, how could he be pissed off when there was a really hot girl than came to his house of her own free will, and then had the deceny to apologize for showing up uninvited.

_You dickweed. I've been telling you that. You never listen to me._

"Well," Mort said, and shifted a bit in his chair. "Maybe I should apologize for being such a jerk. It was nice of you to be worried. I'm just a little stressed lately."

"What's there to be stressed about?" Ivy asked, and went to sit down on Chico's seat. Apparently everything had been forgiven.

"Deadline." Mort lied. Hell no, he wasn't about to tell her about Shooter. "I should have this here book done pretty soon, but I'm a little bit behind." He laughed nervously, and pushed his unruly blonde hair from his eyes.

She smiled at him. "I know how that is. But without deadlines, we'd probably never get anything done, right?"

He laughed. "True. I'm lazy."

_Stop laughing. Can't have a good time with a pretty girl. Have to be serious. You are just _so_ dumb._

Mort ignored himself, Shooter, the "kill-her" feeling, and everything else but the girl in front of her. Oh God please let him get through this without any more blood on his hands...

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Thank you so much, my lovely reviewers! Since I love you so much, you get dirty cups from Johnny Depp's house! Although I didn't steal them, I did... acquire them... Mwhahahah... just like that Jack Sparrow jacket that I... "found". evil grin

Sunkist3208: Thanks gal, very much, I love you! :D Not only do you always always review, you're always so bouncy too!!! (I swear, I really do swear that I will finish reading your story! I really do. Hold me up on that promise!)

Michelle: Love you babe! :-P Jessi told me the same thing... and hurry up with that chapter for our story....

Dawnie-7: Thanks for the review..ï 


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